


All up in yo business

by MechanicalHeart



Category: The Wire
Genre: Booty Calls, Groping, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28195695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MechanicalHeart/pseuds/MechanicalHeart
Summary: Jimmy McNulty's fascination for Stringer Bell extends beyond his police work. It's gotten so bad he is forced to admit as much.The object of his obsession has noticed it, too. What gave it away? The daily drives past his copy shop?
Relationships: Stringer Bell/Jimmy McNulty
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. COPYCAT

The idea that he was no further than thirty steps away gave him a funny feeling. A bit of nausea, a bit of giddiness. From where he was, sitting in his car, on his post, he sometimes caught a glimpse of him behind the windows. Probably checking on his team, how the work was getting on. McNulty wondered if he had a habit of micromanaging. Considering how careful he had been during his drug dealing days (and still was; without a doubt in McNulty’s mind), he seemed the type to look over everyone’s shoulder. And his own.   
McNulty sucked on the straw of his soda, mindlessly staring in the direction of the Copycat copy shop. There wasn’t much soda left and he was practically drinking the ice. The radio had been silent for hours and he wasn’t expecting any urgent calls from his colleagues. Police work obviously did not stop on weekends, but on Mondays? Most of them were enjoying their day off, or driving around on the most relaxed day of the week, crime-wise. Kima was hanging out with Bubs, most likely, and those visits could take more time than expected. McNulty would probably get a call from her soon to share the latest news from Bubs, but there was probably something that needed fixing right now. Maybe he didn’t have a place to stay anymore and they were figuring something out. It wouldn’t be the first time for him.   
He had planned to stay here for a bit, see what Bell was up to. This was a regular thing for him. Just something he did to pass the time, these days. He was always up to something. Never up to much. McNulty had sat in this exact spot many, many times before. Sometimes parked a bit further back as to not attract any suspicion. Looking at the copy shop from different angles and on varying hours of the day. Waiting for something, anything, that would alert him. Something that could be a hint that would lead him somewhere else. A step further in the maze. A visitor, maybe; someone who McNulty’s team had listened to on the wire. Known drug runners coming to Bell for advice. Indications that the copy shop had weapons on its inside. Any excuse to finally get that warrant, to bust through the doors.   
But if McNulty were to be one hundred percent honest he was not just waiting for any of that to happen. The truth was that he wanted to see him.

It was simple enough, but in his line of work, it was anything but. Considering Stringer Bell’s record (not his actual, proven ‘on-record’ record, mind you), it could hardly be more complex.   
It was hard enough trying to convince his superiors that Stringer was the kingpin, the epicenter, the godfather, and that he needed more surveillance, more manpower, more hours on him in order to prove once and for all that he was. It wasn’t that they did not believe McNulty, per se. It was just that everyone knew how police work worked, or rather: did not work. They had no case, not really, even after all of these years. The thing was: McNulty knew he did not have a case. But that was precisely why he needed more info.   
No matter how cautious a man is, there will come a time when he loses his balance, when he slips. Nobody can be on high alert all of the time. Nobody can keep all of their muscles stretched as far as they will go, all of the time. Not even Stringer Bell. And when that happened, McNulty wanted to be there. He wanted to be the one who would bring him in. Not only because of all of the hours he had (some said stubbornly) spent (some said wasted) on him. Not only because he had something to prove to his lieutenant, to his superiors, to the system that had barred him from doing his job properly. Not even because he believed that arresting Stringer would allow his unit to bring a huge criminal network down in one fell swoop, making the city safer. It was all of that, but all of those reasons dwarfed in comparison to what he felt. This… urgency. A deep-seated frustration that the man was out there, right in front of him in his ‘legit’ money laundering business. A personal vendetta that had started the moment he had met him, in that courtroom, in that suit.   
The man was smart enough to play him. To pull his strings. To poke McNulty just enough to catch his interest, but never enough to get caught. That had been his modus operandi from the start. He had never admitted as much, but McNulty knew. He saw it, every time their eyes met. The worst thing about it? Stringer was enjoying himself.  
It was more than a game of wits to him. McNulty was absolutely convinced that something else was involved. He knew because he was the same. He recognized his equal just as he recognized his opponent. Both of them loved to play this game; it was nice to outsmart someone else, right? The difference with how these games usually ended was that neither of them was bored of it, yet. McNulty always got bored after a while. Once it was clear that he had won. Once his opponent had stopped bringing their A-game. Like his ex. There was zero fun in continuing after that. It still hadn’t happened with Stringer, though. Maybe that was all he was waiting for? A clear sign that one of them had pinned the other? A checkmate?

“Oh, what the hell,” McNulty mumbled to himself and put his cup down, got out of the car and crossed the street. Not many people out, despite it being a nice day. People in the city were hard workers, even if they were in the less glamorous fields of business. The only citizens looking his way were a couple of old ladies returning from doing their groceries.   
McNulty passed the large shop windows, realizing that he might already have been spotted and not caring if he had. He pushed on the door. There was a chime and the employees turned their necks to see who had entered the shop.

“Officer.”  
McNulty instantly recognized it, that deep voice of his, that slow way he pronounced his words.   
“Detective, actually, Detective McNulty. You don’t remember?”  
He walked over to the counter in a calm pace, offensively blasé. His striped shirt was a loose fit, sending attention to his upper arms. Most inexpensive office gear would have done the same. It wasn’t his style. He couldn’t do ‘customer-oriented service worker’ just like he couldn’t do ‘friendly family man’. He could pull off a couple of looks, like ‘introverted mastermind of a criminal conspiracy’. Or ‘top of his university class and ready to start his entry level job at a law firm’. It annoyed McNulty, but it annoyed him vaguely. He wished he could tell him to cut the crap and be himself. At the same time, it was endearing- yes, he was endeared by this charade. He was obviously putting so much effort into it.   
“Oh, I remember.” Stringer leaned on the counter, an amused spark behind his glasses. “How could I forget when you keep showing up in my mirrors? And now you’re standing in my shop, huh?”  
McNulty shrugged. “Guess so.”  
“What’s up? Need some copies?”  
When McNulty chuckled at him pretending to not understand. That was fine. McNulty had expected as much.   
“So you’re doing well for yourself, then?”  
Stringer spread his arms, gesturing at their surroundings. “It may be humble. But it’s mine. And it’s making a decent turnover, yes. Is that what you wanted to know?”  
“Can I take a look around?”  
“Of course. Feel free.”  
If it were anybody else, McNulty would have used this invitation as a chance to test if his suspect would get nervous if he approached a certain closet, opened a certain drawer, looked underneath a certain desk. If it were anybody else, he would have still been on guard, because the suspect might try to pull something, or to run off. All of these scenarios were ridiculously fantastic when it came to Stringer. Detective novel nonsense. So he wasn’t quite sure why he did it, anyway. Why he walked past the counter and past the large, buzzing copy machines into the back. He looked around, probably a bit too long to Bell’s liking. He managed to leave him alone for a minute or so before he followed him into the back.  
“We got last year’s records in these files over there, if you wanna see ‘em.”  
“I’m sure they’re fine. Heard you were doing courses in macroeconomics.”  
“Matter of fact, I am,” Stringer lowered his voice and walked in McNulty’s direction. His first instinct was to move back. This wasn’t just any regular crook on the streets. He was big, too, hovering over him- and it wasn’t like McNulty was short. “My term paper’s due next week. So you can see why I don’t have much spare time to entertain you.”  
“I suppose the best way to learn is experience.”  
Stringer closed the distance so quickly it was impossible for McNulty to get away or to dodge his hand grabbing him in his crotch. He gasped involuntarily.   
“Listen,” Stringer said, his forehead almost touching McNulty’s. “I don’t know what you’re looking for.” His fingers squeezed and that was all it took for McNulty to get hard. He felt the blood pumping in his veins, trying to meet Stringer’s big hand. It felt like he hadn’t been touched in ages.   
“But if you’s gonna be all up in my business…”  
His hand slid between McNulty’s belt and his stomach, skin to skin, and gripped his cock firmly, making McNulty’s hips jerk. “I might as well be all up in yours, you feel me?”  
“I feel you,” McNulty squirmed.  
“Yeah. I can tell.”  
Stringer moved his hand down, then all the way up. McNulty gritted his teeth. He felt himself grow in his hand. _Concentrate_ , he begged himself. _Don’t give him the satisfaction_. Oh, but he was good at this; he knew exactly what he was doing. McNulty trembled, wondering where the rest of the staff had fucked off to, wondering how long he would be able to stand this. Judging by how his cock was tingling, not very long. When he felt his self-control slip away from him and closed his eyes, ready to surrender, Bell stopped and pulled his hand back. McNulty exhaled sharply.  
“If you ever feel the urge to reach me,” Stringer said, “when my midterms are over...”  
He took a small piece of paper from his pocket and slipped it into McNulty’s.   
“Thanks.”  
“You’re welcome, officer.”  
 _Fuck you_ , McNulty thought, his head all hazy, feeling suffocated. If he hadn’t been so overwhelmed he would have been blind with rage. He needed air.   
“Now go,” Stringer nudged him away from him.

He hadn’t expected it, he told himself as he walked out of the copy shop. That was why. He had been prepared for Stringer playing dirty, but this? This was a whole different sport. Who would have been ready for what had just happened?   
Through the warm sunlight he got back to his car and waited until he had left the block, until he had driven to a different part of town. Nothing but empty former industrial buildings, here. He parked his car on the side of the road and violently shook his head. It did nothing to clear up his head. The dream-like state continued, dragged on like a nagging hangover. Maybe it was best if he called it quits for today.   
He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket. It was a business card, with simple but professional lettering on a sturdy paper type. B&B Enterprises, it said, with a mobile number right beneath it. Was this one of the numbers they were tracing on the wire? It didn’t look familiar. McNulty had at least the last three digits of all the numbers connected with Bell memorized and he did not recognize this one. Maybe it was used exclusively for clean business and too legit for any police work. And maybe Stringer was too far out of the game to get caught. McNulty had no problem whatsoever imagining Stringer slithering away from him, just out of the team’s reach like the snake that he was. It was one of his most frequent nightmare visions, and unfortunately, also one of the most realistic.  
After making sure nobody was looking towards his car he laid his hand between his legs, squeezing hard. He felt his cock twitch instantly, craving to be touched. He really needed to get back home.


	2. THE SUBURBS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A private mobile number on a business card counts as a lead, right?

“Barksdale and Bell Enterprises.”  
“String?”  
The other end of the line was silent while Stringer tried to remember his voice, probably. Or maybe he had to move to another room. Judging from the background noises he might be having company.  
“Is this the curious cop who walked into my store the other day?”  
“Yes, it is.”  
“You still haven’t got enough?”  
“I’m trying to figure out how many lives I have left.”  
“Oh.” Stringer smiled, McNulty could hear it. “Are they paying you extra for this kind of overtime?”  
“I wish.”  
“Sounds like a bad business model to me. Dedication warrants a reward.”  
McNulty grinned, thinking he probably looked like an idiot. Good thing that he was alone here and all the lights were off.  
“Any arrests planned for the night?”  
McNulty moved his weight from one leg to the other and leaned against the doorpost. “String, I, uh…”  
“Officer. Not over the phone, aight?” Stringer chuckled and so did McNulty. “Hold up, I’ll send you a text.”  
And with that, Stringer Bell ended the call. McNulty fought the urge to call him back, even after half an hour had passed. He paced around in his apartment, past the unopened moving boxes. He needed to finish putting the bookshelves together. And the table. It was the job’s fault, he thought; the job’s fault that he dragged himself into bed (onto the mattress) every weeknight, the job’s fault that he got shit-faced drunk at least four nights every week. It made him jolt awake in the middle of the night. It made his hair look like shit, and it made his eyes sink into his skull like a walking dead body. Sure, you could reasonably pin his tendency to hyper-focus on a case or a person on his personality. But you had to admit he would never have laid eyes upon this particular case, or person, without the job. And in any other line of work, it wouldn’t be this way. What he was doing would have been questionable but not inexcusable. Then again, it might have been nice, but it would not have been this mind-numbingly hot. In short: there was no escape, was there?  
McNulty rolled around on his mattress, ending on his back with his eyes closed. Wondering what he had gotten himself into. Trying to come up with bullshit to sell to Daniels. He wasn’t sure there were any excuses for what he was about to do. That meant he would have to hope and pray that nobody would find out. He blew all the air from his lungs, coming to terms with the simple fact that he was utterly fucked this time.  
His phone buzzed. 1 new text message, it said. McNulty pushed the tiny buttons that were obviously not designed with his hands in mind, and opened the message. The little envelope icon changed into an opened envelope icon. The message was an address.  
  
“Hi.”  
“Evening.”  
Stringer, in a black polo shirt and his glasses on, looked like he had just left his college classes. Well, except for his socks on the floor. He looked McNulty up and down, from his curls (fresh out the shower) to his feet (in trainers, partially to appear casual and chill, partially out of a vague notion that he should be able to run like hell if he needed to). The verdict was positive. The quickly suppressed smile gave it away. McNulty’s choice for his blue jeans and dark jacket was justified. And he was glad it was, because he had debated it for quite a while.  
“Didn’t know you lived uptown like this.”  
“Ain’t no need to peek past my shoulder, officer. Come in.”  
McNulty did what he asked. He took off his shoes and hung his jacket next to an expensive looking long coat. He hadn’t reached the living room yet when Stringer put his hand on his arm. “Hold up.”  
“What’s up?”  
“Need to search you.”  
“Already?” McNulty sighed dramatically as he lifted his arms in the air. “I liked the tension of the unknown, though.”  
Stringer put his hands on him, feeling his chest, sides, armpits, all the way up to his wrists.  
“This isn’t entirely fair if you won’t let me return the honor.”  
“Spread your legs.”  
There was no choice but to obey. McNulty turned his gaze to the ceiling, waiting until he was done.  
“We get enough shit about service weapons at the department as it is.”  
“I’m sure you do.”  
“May I?”  
Stringer took a deep breath to illustrate his impatience. He threw his hands in the air as if McNulty’s service weapon was pointed at his heart. At first, McNulty was going through the motions. He had performed this particular police task so many times it was second nature. Left, right, front, back. From his waist to his ankles, and from his ankles back up to his groin.  
“Well, you’re clean.”  
“Was that good for you?”  
McNulty couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Oh, I loved it.”  
“You better. ‘Cos it’s the closest you’re ever gonna get.”  
“Hmm.”  
Stringer laughed, McNulty laughed. They saw each other’s faces and laughed again. Like two best mates in middle school, McNulty thought- giving a new depth to the sense that he had had since the beginning: that the two of them could have been friends, would absolutely have been friends, if circumstances had been different. Helping each other with homework, picking universities. Maybe a friend like Stringer would have convinced him not to drop out. He felt bad, bad that they had missed out on all of it. I would have been so proud of him, McNulty thought, and he would have been so good at it. Much better than me.  
He laid his hands to Stringer’s cheeks and kissed him. When he moved back, Stringer grinned and kissed him in return. Neither of them could stop smiling and they amused themselves with the back and forth for a while. A couple of moments, McNulty felt that they were dangerously close to going much deeper, but every time it happened Stringer steered away from it again. He was fine with it. He was enjoying this lightness, this inconsequential affection.  
“Detective,” Stringer then said. “Can I make you a drink?”  
“I’m driving,” McNulty said, immediately realizing how ridiculous that statement was.  
“Are you, now?”  
“Oh well. One drink won’t hurt.”  
Stringer walked off to his kitchen. It was surprisingly big, surprisingly modern and surprisingly stylish. The lighting was subtle, the appliances gave a metallic shine. On the other end of the room, which was primarily occupied by a large couch, was a sliding door to something that looked like an office. It was unlit but McNulty still made out some large books on a shelf, and more books scattered on the desk. The view was great. He could see why Stringer hadn’t closed the blinds. The water was dark; the lights on the other side of it framed it like a picture.  
“What’s with the swords?” he asked when Stringer returned, carrying two tumblers.  
“They remind me to focus.”  
“Focus? Thanks,” McNulty accepted the drink. It smelled great. The quality of this bourbon was higher than anything his deadbeat ass chugged every weeknight, that was for sure.  
“Have you read the Book of Five Rings?”  
The suggestion that McNulty had time to read anything besides the funnies his boys read at breakfast made him laugh. He took a sip. “The book of what?”  
“Musashi? Sun Tzu?”  
“You’re losing me.”  
“Forget it.” Stringer sat down on the couch, slightly removed from McNulty. “They just tell me that I need to persevere.” There was space for at least three people on the seats between them. In other words: too much.  
McNulty stared him down.  
“What?”  
“I already had some. It’s safe.”  
Stringer raised his eyebrows, blinked and laughed. “I bet you’re a real treat to your coworkers.”  
“Oh, they adore me,” McNulty took a gulp. It softly burned his throat. It was delicious. “I’m their Jimmy brown eyes.” He waved his arm, gesturing about the room. “You could host a pretty good party here.”  
“Yeah, maybe. If I enjoyed company.”  
“Not a fan? I pictured you doing family barbecues every weekend.”  
“Yeah, yeah. Your family doing good, detective?”  
“Sure.” He frowned, looking into the distance.  
“’Sup?”  
“I just remembered the holidays are coming up. What the fuck are kids into these days?”  
“You want our corner boys to ask around for you?”  
McNulty downed his drink. “Maybe. Why the hell not?”  
“That bourbon took you two minutes.”  
“What can I say, I’m good like that.”  
“And now you want more?”  
“Didn’t have anything before coming here, so…”  
“If you say so.” Stringer got up again and walked into the kitchen, leaving McNulty on the couch, chuckling at himself. It was true: he hadn’t had anything before coming here. He had had enough of being tipsy every night. It messed with his sleep, and his concentration the next day suffered for it. And maybe it had also been a deliberate preparation for this random date. He hadn’t wanted to be drunk, being in front of Stringer. Didn’t want to slip up, say something stupid. He was only taking his offer now to get his stress levels down, maybe as a muscle relaxation. The fact that he was here at all was so miraculous, he was willing to be ready for anything.  
Stringer placed his refill on the glass table with a click. You might expect a man who was as imposing as he was to move around in a less than composed and gentle manner. You’d be wrong with this man. The control he had over his muscles was so big it gave his movements a kind of softness, a grace.  
“Sorry for drinking all your booze, but this shit is good.”  
“I know.”  
“You’re not drinking, though.”  
Stringer rubbed his eyes like the notion of drinking more tired him. “I’m a lightweight.”  
“No doubt.”  
They say at their respective ends of the couch for a while, quietly sipping their glasses, quietly casting looks at one another, until Stringer couldn’t stop himself any longer and laughed.  
“Are all the Irish funny guys?”  
“We like to pride ourselves that we are.” McNulty grinned. “You’re not too bad, yourself.”  
“Can you tell me at what point we’re gonna quit fooling around?”  
“What do you mean?”  
Stringer moved over to McNulty’s side of the couch, setting his hands onto the seating and leaning closer.  
“Do you wanna make out first? Or show me your wire?”  
“That’s an easy question,” said McNulty. He chugged his drink, set the glass on the table and turned his full attention to the man he had chased for years. He was closer than he had been through all of that time. He remembered thinking how gorgeous he was. He hadn’t known he had a type when it came to men but Stringer confirmed that he had one.  
He knew he didn’t have to be too careful with him so he was rough at first, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck and pressing his lips firmly to his. The first two seconds or so, Stringer felt like a marble statue; completely still. Then something happened. Something clicked, somewhere, and he took over. It was a long kiss, and a deep one; seemingly much deeper and more intense than he had shared with any of the ladies he had kissed. This was different. Usually, he put in the work and the women reacted- even if they were passionate, even if their personality was much more dominant than his own (he preferred them that way), Jimmy was the one taking the lead. Their tongues were small. Cute in the way they moved. In the way they tried to devour him, but never could. In contrast to them, he didn’t stand a chance against Stringer. It wasn’t just how much thicker and overall, more present his tongue was in his mouth. He was slow, taking his time, testing the Irish detective who had been dumb enough to come too close. The manner in which his big hands pinched his sides, grabbed his thighs, and felt him up make McNulty moan, and the moment he made a sound he knew that this was how it was going to be. Stringer, above him, holding him down; and he, submissive, giving in to anything he would suggest. Anything. No hesitation.

“You like that?”  
Stringer used a different voice, softer, even lower than before.  
McNulty, wondering why it was that he was already so out of breath when Stringer sounded fine, exhaled: “Yes.”  
“You sure you’re okay with your colleagues listening in?”  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jimmy pulled his shirt over his head and threw it to the side. “Clean.”  
Stringer laid his palms to his bare chest, moving down to his stomach, sliding his index finger over the dark hair leading to his erect cock, which was now so hard his clothes irritated him to no end. He wanted them off, off, all of them, now.  
“Indeed.”  
McNulty didn’t even have to ask if there were any corner boys getting a piece of the action on Stringer’s side. He knew there weren’t. He knew that this was an initiative from Stringer and Stringer alone, that he usually did things on his own and only rarely allowed anyone a peek inside of his private life. He doubted if even Avon Barksdale often came by this place. Judging by the look of it, probably not. He wouldn’t have liked it, either. It wouldn’t go with his ‘new money going downtown’ style.  
“Hold up,” Stringer stopped him when McNulty starting tugging on his polo shirt and got up. “Let’s move.”  
“Was it an expensive couch?”  
“Yes, it was.” He walked out of the room, taking his time. He looked so comfortable in his own space, seemingly so unimpressed by the horny detective wanting to strip him bare. All of this made said detective’s horniness even worse, and he hurriedly followed him into his bedroom.  
It was dark in there, with the only light coming from the living room. Stringer stood before McNulty, making him do all the work. All he had to do was lift his arms when Jimmy took off his shirt. Lean back on his bed while Jimmy licked his stomach, took off his belt and pulled his trousers and boxers down at the same time.  
“Fuck,” he grinned at the sight of his cock, finally exposed, wondering if Stringer could guess how often he had dreamed about it. Well, probably.  
“You wanted it,” said Stringer. “So work for it.”  
‘Work’ in this context was not overstated. Licking the shaft and sucking on the tip was easy. They both enjoyed it. Stringer laid his head against the upright pillows and sighed at McNulty’s first attempts to take in more inches. His tongue was soft, his lips were tight. He was really trying, too; no signs of hesitation, no signs of shame. He moved a tiny bit further each time he went down, seeing how far he could go. Never one to turn his back on a challenge, that was pretty far. Stringer pushed his hips forward, watching himself disappear into the detective’s mouth. He didn’t want to push too hard, didn’t want him to give up, especially after just a few minutes. He couldn’t help it. It felt too good. He inadvertently groaned the first time he felt himself touch the back of his throat. But so did Jimmy.  
He wasn’t quite sure where it came from but he loved it when Stringer’s cock hit his throat, loved how full his mouth was. If he wasn’t mistaken he could feel him swell up even more. He tried to catch his breath every now and then. After a while, though, Stringer wouldn’t let him. His fingers reached for the curls on his head and grabbed them, pushing him further between his legs. Jimmy felt his own cock, already so thick and wet, tremble at the knowledge that he was no longer the one giving a blowjob; that Stringer was fucking his mouth. Tears welled in his eyes. It was too much. At the same time, ‘too much’ was exactly what he wanted. A few minutes more, he told himself. Keep going for just a few minutes and he’s gonna come in your mouth. He kept telling himself the same thing. Stringer liked taking his time. McNulty listened to his breathing as it became more and more labored. Paid close attention to his subdued moans as they became more frequent. He was still trying to control himself and for the most part, he did the job. No wonder, for a man like Stringer who could never afford to appear weak or not all there. He couldn’t hold it in for much longer, though; Jimmy was convinced and that belief made him fearless. He pushed harder, gave it his all, not knowing or caring how he was going to breathe in this position.  
Stringer gasped. Jimmy felt his nails scratching his scalp, loosening his grip on his hair. He slammed himself inside of him for the final time. Jimmy tried to keep up, doing his best not to gag or suffocate. He swallowed, and again, and again. Stringer’s hips jerked a few times but his muscles relaxed, slowly. He looked at Jimmy, sucking on the tip again, making sure that every drop of come was his, and leaned his head back.

“I thought you only ever ate pussy, man.”  
“Usually.”  
“Are they satisfied? Your ladies?”  
“Well,” Jimmy wiped his mouth, “I’m divorced, so I can’t be that good.”  
Stringer blew all the air from his lungs, shaking his head incredulously.  
“How do _you_ like your women?” Jimmy asked, laying down next to him.  
“Me?” he gave Jimmy a tired smile. “I like sluts. Can you tell?”  
“That explains it.”

Stringer laid his hands to McNulty’s cheeks and kissed his lips. His hands moved down, towards McNulty’s painfully hard cock- _poor me_ , Jimmy thought in silence, _neglected and ignored for so long_ \- pulled his jeans down, followed by his boxers. Jimmy shuddered at the feeling of Stringer’s hand around his cock, finally free. As much as he had enjoyed the way he had felt him up in the Copycat, with his employees so close, the way he jerked him off now was infinitely better.  
He felt his heart beating in his throat, his scalp, his hands, everywhere. He breathed, trying to keep up. It was hopeless and it was clear from the start. He reached out, not knowing what he was doing, laid his hands to Stringer’s chest, clasping his shoulders, just for something to hold on to.  
“Fuck,” he growled, hardly noticing how much he sounded like a wild animal.  
Stringer laughed, quietly. He probably did notice and found it funny. Jimmy guessed that most of his bed partners had that in common with him. Stringer looked him in his eyes, observing his face while overcome with pleasure. Like he was studying the behavior of an unfamiliar species. It probably wasn’t every day Stringer found a white cop in his bed, and his interest was perfectly logical. McNulty still blushed, unable to break eye contact as if he was staring straight into a train’s headlights as it raced towards him. He pressed the back of his head into his pillow, gritting his teeth. This was so good, it was insane. Too big for a pea-brain like his own to grasp. If this was what he could do with just his hand imagine what else he could do?  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he gasped. There was no air, there was nowhere to go.  
“Do you want me to stop, officer?” Stringer grinned, glancing down at McNulty’s cock, twitching in his hand as he suddenly stopped moving.  
“Fuck you,” McNulty groaned. He still couldn’t help laughing at himself.  
“Your call. You’re the boss.” He pinched his nipple with his free hand. He kept his cool, stayed casual about it, haughty and arrogant, seemingly unfazed by McNulty’s reactions.  
“So? Want me to make you come?”  
“You’ll make me come when I make the cuffs go click around your wrists,” Jimmy said through his teeth.  
“You won’t.”  
“So do it now.”  
Stringer smiled and did what he asked. He never averted his gaze from Jimmy’s eyes, bringing him closer to orgasm with steady, hard pushes. Jimmy met his eyes, fearless, knowing that he would look him in his eyes in the exact same way on the streets, in an interrogation room, wherever. Locked up, in orange; or as a free man. He knew who he was, he knew how his mind worked. And Stringer knew how McNulty’s mind worked. There might be darkness and secrets and ulterior motives between them, floating in the hot air, and it was still so clear. Bright as day. Jimmy loved him for all that he was. Corner boy, drug boss, kingpin. Businessman in a suit. Respected member of society. All of the forms he could take. Maybe he would never win, maybe he would never get the upper hand in this game. He didn’t give a fuck. All he wanted was to watch Stringer play it.


	3. SIRENS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something Jimmy said after sex keeps going through Stringer's mind.

Stringer Bell listened to sirens, wailing in the distance.   
They say that the force never sleeps. The Irishman in his arms proved otherwise.   
Maybe he had gone too hard on him, he thought, feeling his ribs expand and fall back again with each cycle of breaths. He had been so completely drained Stringer had thought he would fall asleep instantly. He had pushed him out of bed, into the bathroom to wash up. The detective had taken a shower while the mob boss had washed the sweat off of his face with a washcloth at the sink. McNulty had sleepwalked back to the bed after a half-assed job with a towel, tumbling on the mattress. He had quickly found unconsciousness.

Stringer stroked his cheek, softly, without waking him up.   
Just as well; he deserved his sleep. That mouth had worked enough. Stringer’s lips parted at the thought of his mouth, that throat. He really had a talent for it, not to mention a taste. He could tell by the way he wouldn’t even flinch, no matter how hard Stringer had shoved his cock further inside. He fucking _loved_ sucking dick. Maybe just as much as he loved doing police work.   
He knew it was odd, to be okay with having a cop in his bed, not to mention a cop like this particular one, for a man like himself. But really, he was okay with it. It was fine. Stringer understood. He didn’t hold it against him. It was his calling. Callings are to be followed, and who was he to stop a man from following his innate talent? Whatever it was? McNulty couldn’t do anything else because he wasn’t fit for anything else. You can’t turn a hunting dog into an obedient domestic companion. You can’t expect him to be a good pet to his owners when all his nature knows to do is follow trails. Stringer knew as much about the man in his arms.   
If doing detective work had been _his_ calling he would have done the same. These days, though, he didn’t even know what he liked to do anymore.

“Do you think we made Avon jealous now?” the detective had mumbled, mouth against the pillow, eyes closed.   
Stringer blinked, surprised by the sudden mention of his partner. The mere thought of Avon didn’t belong in Stringer’s rooms, and right now was the least appropriate time. Not that he had forgotten about him- not a day, not an hour went by without him crossing his mind- but to hear his name from the detective’s mouth after what had just happened was strangely off-putting.  
“He doesn’t know.”  
“Oh, alright,” was the last thing McNulty said before he drifted off. It sounded like the ramblings of someone with one leg firmly planted in a dream. Even so, it was difficult for Stringer to interpret it as anything other than intentional. Everything with this man was calculated, thought through. Nothing was random. At least, when it came to Stringer. He had to give it to him: it was a good closing move, because he was still thinking about it now, hours later.  
  
He had to wonder if he was really doing this to get back at Avon.  
Maybe. Maybe not.   
Funny how he couldn’t be sure.


End file.
